painful to me, but I would dearly love this Master Hoode to pen his work for Banbury's Men.'
'He does, Master. He does.'
Giles Randolph laughed in keen appreciation.
'When he reaches Grantham, he'll be most perplexed.'
'And cry out like the victim of a robbery.'
'With Master Firethorn howling 'Murder!' in his wake.' He became businesslike. 'We must keep a distance ahead of them. It will not serve if Westfield's Men overtake us. We'll come to blows in that event.'
'I have a device to slow them down completely.'
'Tell me what it is, Master Scruton.'
'Lend me an ear.'
Giles Randolph leaned close so that he could catch the other's whisper. A smirk lit up his dark features. He liked the notion so much that he slipped his companion a few coins by way of gratitude. It was but small payment to a man who was proving such a friend to Banbury's Men.
Mark Scruton was their saviour.
Night wrapped its black cloak around the Pomeroy Arms. Secure in the knowledge that an audience awaited them on the morrow, Westfield's Men rehearsed until evening then roistered until midnight. They fell into their beds and were soon asleep, dreaming sweetly in their contentment. Nicholas Bracewell shared a room with four others at the rear of the premises. Fond thoughts of Anne Hendrik flitted their way through his slumber and he might have enjoyed them all night had not something disturbed him. He was awake at once and looking around with bleary eyes. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness but he heard the others snoring in peaceful fellowship beside him. He listened carefully then realized what was wrong.
Someone was missing.
The distant clack of shoes on paved stone made him slip out of bed and cross to the window. He could just make out the tall figure of a man who was loping away from the inn. Nicholas shook his head to bring himself fully awake then strained his eyes against the gloom. The man reached higher ground and was silhouetted for a few seconds against the sky. It was enough. The book holder recognized him by his profile and his gait.
Christopher Millfield ran off into the night.
Westfield's Men improvised with characteristic skill on their journey to Ancient Rome. Sheets became togas, long daggers became short swords, bushes were pillaged for laurel wreaths and a high-backed chair was borrowed from the inn itself to do duty as a throne. Under the guidance of the book holder, actors turned carpenters to build a few simple scenic devices. Edmund Hoode's woodwork was directed at the play itself and he laboured hard with his chisel, saw and plane. Tarquin of Rome was a long drama with a large cast. Had they been performing it in a town the size of Bristol or Newcastle or Exeter, they could easily have recruited journeymen to make up the numbers but that option was denied to them here. The play had to be trimmed to fit their modest company, though, even in its attenuated version, it was still a powerful drama. Only a full-blooded performance and frantic doubling could bring it off. It was the kind of challenge that they liked.
Lawrence Firethorn gave them heart and hope.
Let's make the old house ring with exultation!'
Pomeroy Manor became a magnet for the local gentry. They came in droves to see the unlikely sight of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, seventh and last king of Rome, in the banqueting hall of a house in Hertfordshire. It was a revelation to them. On their makeshift stage, and with minimal scenery and costumes, Westfield's Men transported their spectators back some two thousand years or more.
Lawrence Firethorn thrilled them to the marrow with his portrayal of Tarquin, drunk with power and steeped in wickedness, enhancing the power and prosperity of Rome in order to exploit it for his own selfish ends.
It fell to Christopher Millfield to end the play.
Our soldiers brave subdue your coward band, Restoring peace unto our bloodied land. Beshrew your heart, foul tyrant, fade away. Honour rules upon this glorious day. Though cruel kings vile cruelties will send, Freedom's banner flutters at the end.
Neville Pomeroy leapt to his feet to lead the sustained applause for a play that had moved as much as it had entertained. Westfield's Men were feted. It made amends for all their setbacks. As they were leaving Pomeroy Manor, they had money in their purse and a triumph under their belt. It was invigorating.
Their host showered them with fresh thanks.
'You do not know what joy you have brought.'
'We are deeply gratified,' said Firethorn, still using his Tarquin voice. 'We humble wights live on the indulgence of our patrons. Pomeroy Manor has been our joy as well. We hope for like acceptance everywhere.'
'You will find it for sure, sir.'
'Not in Ware or Royston, I fear.'
'Go further north towards certain victory.'
'That is our intention.'
'I have done my share,' said Pomeroy. 'Hearing of your plans, I wrote from London to my closest friend to warn him of your coming. Westfield's Men are assured of a hearty welcome there.'
'We thank you, kind sir. Where is this place?'
'Marmion Hall.'
'In what town?'
'Close by the city of York.'
Lawrence Firethorn played the crusader again.
'York, you say? We know it by another name.'
'What might that be?'
'Jerusalem!'
The cellar was deep beneath the house. No natural light penetrated and the thick stone walls were covered with seeping damp. There was a smell of despair. The man was naked to the waist. Spread-eagled on a wooden table, he was tied in such a way as to increase his torment. Rope bit into his wrists and ankles, stretching him until he was on the point of splitting asunder. Huge gobs of sweat were wrung out of him to mingle with the streaked blood across his chest and arms. His face was a pulp. As he lay in his own excrement, he barely had the strength to groan any more and did not even feel the impudent legs of the spider that ran across his forehead.
Marmion Hall was the ancestral home of one of the most respected families in Yorkshire. Nobody would have believed that it housed such a guest beneath its roof.
The cellar door was unlocked and unbolted from the outside and a candle brought light. A short, stocky man in the livery of a servant went across to the prisoner and held the flame where it illumined his battered features. Sir Clarence Marmion was impassive as he saw the tortured body.
'Has he said no more?'
'Nothing beyond cries of pain, Sir Clarence.' Have you tested him to the full?'
'With steel and fire. He's bled half to death.' Would not whipping loosen his tongue?'
Only to let him beg for mercy.'
'They get none that give none,' said the other coldly. 'Walsingham's men are ruthless. So must we be.'
Grabbing the prisoner by the hair, the servant banged his head on the table then leered right into his face.
'Speak up, sir! We cannot hear you!'
A long moan came from between parched lips.
'Who was he?' hissed Sir Clarence. 'I want the name of the spy who informed on Master Rickwood!'
